


The Adventure Of Two Giant Rats (1890)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [122]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Conflicted John, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Rats, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 19:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Another fearsome creature stalks the East End of London, and John has to do something that he will bitterly regret.





	The Adventure Of Two Giant Rats (1890)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the “Matilda Briggs”, and the Giant Rat of Sumatra'.

It was just over thirty years since Mr. Charles Darwin had published his great work, “On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life” (and to think; some people had the gall to claim that _my_ titles were too long!). The idea of Mankind evolving from an ape-like ancestor – not, as many opponents of the theory claimed, from modern apes - that had, in different parts of the world produced monkeys and chimpanzees, was slowly becoming accepted scientific theory, and I remember once wondering if, as the white man explored further into the thus far hidden reaches of our planet, we might not find some other members of our family tree.

As things turned out, we had already found something. Something extremely unpleasant.

+~+~+

I have mentioned before, in those cases with a French connection, the shock waves that reverberated across the Continent when once-mighty France had seen German troops marching through Paris, and had been subsequently forced to cede the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine to the Kaiser. As one might expect, this had led Germany's neighbours to seriously consider their own positions, and that same year (1871), the Dutch had signed a treaty with the United Kingdom, ceding their lands in the Gold Coast (the area around Jamestown, West Africa) in return for a free hand over the island of Sumatra in the East Indies, where they wished to subdue the local tribes in order to secure the trade routes to the Spice Islands. Our country retained trading rights but no political ones as regards Sumatra, an island over twice the size of Great Britain and larger than the American state of California. 

This was why it was not unusual when a ship called the _“Matilda Briggs"_ arrived to London from Sumatra via Cape Town. Except that the cargo this ship was carrying would soon bring terror anew to a city only just recovering from the scourge that had been Jack the Ripper.

+~+~+

My friend's involvement in this case began with the killing of Captain Thomas Warner in September of that year, an event which was brought to his attention by the captain's first mate, a likeable old salt by name of Mr. Frederick Pyle. He had reported the death to Sergeant Baldur at the station, and had been advised to also bring the case to us, as the sergeant thought that it might interest the great (if immodest) detective.

“I blame myself, sirs”, Mr. Pyle said, sniffing mournfully. “We were drinking down at the Anchor & Hope, not far from our ship, and he left early because he wanted to finish some paperwork. He had half an hour's start on me, three quarters tops, and when I followed him....”

His voice trailed off, and he looked deathly pale.

“It was.... horrible, sirs”, he muttered. “He'd been mauled by some sort of creature, and there was hardly anything left of him. But by the red socks he always wore – lucky he called them, hah! - and his neckerchief, I knew it was him all right.”

Sherlock poured him another drink, which he accepted gratefully.

“Where precisely did you find the body?” he asked gently.

“Dew Street, sir, just beyond where it meets Garrovick Lane”, the sailor said. “There's a few posh places further down the Garrovick, where some of the men who've made their fortune from the ships live.”

My friend thought for a moment.

“Was the place that you found him on the direct route back to the ship?” he asked.

The sailor frowned in thought.

“No”, he said at last. “He should've turned left down Garrovick, not carried on. Is that important?”

“It suggests either that he may have been fleeing, or possibly headed to some assignation”, Sherlock explained. “What is the name of your ship, please?”

“The _“Matilda Briggs”_ , sir. One of the best.” 

“Have you carried any unusual cargoes of late?”

There was a definite hesitation before the 'no'. Sherlock pounced.

“Come, sir”, he said. “This man was clearly a friend as well as a superior, or you would not be here. If you wish me to investigate his death, which I must say I am quite inclined to do, then I must have _all_ the facts.”

The sailor nodded.

“I spoke truth sir; I have not myself been on any such voyages. However, for three months last year I was at home, waiting for my wife to give birth....”

“Successfully, I hope”, I put in. He smiled warmly.

“A son, Forrest, named for my wife's family name”, he said. “I returned to the ship when she got back from her last trip out east, and more than one of the men told me that it hadn't been a happy voyage. The master had agreed – reluctantly, they said - to transport something back from the island of Sumatra for a gentleman in London. The fellow who wanted it shipped paid handsomely and the men all got bonuses, but they was still uneasy. No-one was allowed to see it, and it came with its own guard, who they all said they hated. I know they say us seamen are a superstitious sort, but it takes a lot to make us all feel uneasy.”

“Superstition is sometimes justified”, Sherlock said. “Do you happen to know the name of the gentleman for whom this cargo was destined?”

“I do not, sir, but if you go see Tim Cash – he was my replacement for the voyage – I think he'd probably remember. He lives in Barrowby Street, number seventy-one. He's signed onto the “Wayfarer” now, on a trip to Norway or some such place, but she'll be back in port next Monday morning, most probably in the small hours, and he always has a few days home before he heads out again.”

“Thank you, sir”, Sherlock said. “I promise that I shall look into this case for you. If you write your address on the doctor's notepad, I shall communicate any findings that I have to you.”

The seaman did so and left. I looked at my friend.

“This is serious, isn't it?” I ventured.

He nodded. It was after all barely a year since Sherlock's wise counsel had (when belatedly heeded) led to a man being placed in an asylum and the Ripper attacks immediately ceasing. The city was still on edge every time a death was even remotely suspicious, not helped by a number of what the police considered (or hoped?) to be copy-cat crimes. If this was the start of something new, then it boded very ill. 

+~+~+

Though I had no way of knowing the storm that would all too soon break over my happy life, I could not but be aware that the strain of working against Professor James Moriarty was telling on my dear friend. He would sometimes doze off in the afternoon, his book falling to his side, and if I was there I would gently place a blanket over his sleeping form and go to my room to fret in silence. More and more we held each other in bed of an evening for some time before sleep claimed us, like an old married couple, and sometimes I felt him trembling as if he was afraid I might be ripped away from him in some way. As if I would ever leave him! As if I ever could!

Sherlock's 'clinginess', for want of a better word, also manifested itself in a refusal to take on any case that would take him away from London. This had led to a renewal of his trouble with his brother Bacchus – sadly back to his old self - when the previous month had seen the lounge-lizard demanding that Sherlock go down to some country house to sort out a political matter, and my friend had refused. Angry words were exchanged, and his brother went so far to slam the door on the way out, a mistake he never repeated as Mrs. Harvelle met him in the hallway. With her rifle. She did not take well to people damaging her property, and she made him go all the way back up the stairs and shut the door quietly before she would let him leave. She was formidable (by which I mean absolutely terrifying) like that.

Of course some people never learn, and the lounge-lizard was back the following month, just after Mr. Pyle's visit, to again demand Sherlock's services. When he admitted that it was a matter in the far reaches of north-east Scotland – Morayshire, to be exact – Sherlock flatly refused to go. Our unwelcome guest stormed out (thankfully this time without drawing our landlady's ire) and was gone. My poor friend looked broken after his departure, and we sat on the couch together for some considerable time, just holding each other.

“I love you”, he whispered into my neck, his voice breaking with emotion. “I will always love you, John. Always and forever.”

Those words should have made me happy, but I could not shake the growing feeling that this sort of happiness never really lasted for the John Watsons of this world, and that somehow everything would unravel one way or another.

I was barely six months away from finding out how it would do just that.

+~+~+

The following week we headed to Barrowby Street to see Mr. Cash, the “Wayfarer” having docked the morning prior. It did not go quite as I might have expected. We were met at the door by a young blond fellow who, when Sherlock stated his purpose, looked positively hostile.

“I'm not risking what happened to poor Cap'n Warner happening to my dad!” he said firmly. “No questions.”

“May I at least hear that from him?” Sherlock asked.

The young man, who was quite well-built, looked set to respond until he caught sight of me over Sherlock's shoulder. And his expression immediately changed.

“Doctor Watson!”

“Pardon?” I said. I did not know this man from Adam. He chuckled.

“Of course, you never actually met me”, he smiled, to my further confusion. “Eighty-three it was, seven years ago. You were treating one of the Woolstane-Neale sisters for a skin complaint.”

I remembered now. It had been a few, painful weeks after Sherlock's departure from my life, and the three ladies in question had been frankly atrocious. Not only did the house smell so strongly of lavender that it had made me feel ill, but they were all quite rude, and far too full of themselves. 

“I remember them well”, I said ruefully. “Quite insufferable ladies!”

“I'm Tim Cash; me and my sister Peg worked at the house then”, he explained. “Peg had much the same thing as Miss Rose, and those stuck-up toffs said it wasn't worth treating a servant. That was until you told them that the longer anyone in the house had the disease, the more likely it was that the rest of them would become infected.”

I blushed. I did not like to lie to my patients as a rule (except when it was for their own benefit), but the Woolstane-Neales had rubbed me up the wrong way at a time in my life when I was feeling very vulnerable. Miss Lavinia had questioned me as to why the unction for the servants was a different one to that which her sister had been given, and I had compounded my sins by telling her that the one her sister had was for the richest patients only. In truth I had merely added some walnut essence to the same preparation, knowing that it would make certain snobby patients feel superior. I may or may not have also charged some way above my usual rate for said preparation. Quite by accident, of course.

“Come on in, friend!”, Mr. Cash smiled. “I'm sure that dad would love to meet you!”

Sherlock gave me a look as I passed him, and even though I could not see any outward sign of it, I knew that he was smiling. Which was good.

+~+~+

Mr. Timothy Cash did indeed have the information that we required. 

“Me and the lads thought he had a woman down there one time”, he chuckled. “The guy who was with the crate, he always took down enough food for two or three people; guess he thought us sailors were too dumb to notice something like that. None of us were allowed down there; Bob got yelled at for walking down the corridor just to get to the store room, for Christ's sake!”

“How big was the crate?” Sherlock asked.

“I only saw it from a distance when it was being loaded, not close up”, Mr. Cash said. “That in itself was odd; it was shipped on board when we were all off, but I was getting some air along the quayside. I'd say.... big enough so a man could sit hunched up inside, but not spread out. Maybe four foot all round; I'm not sure.”

“And the gentleman it was bound for?” Sherlock asked. “I do not suppose that you happen to remember his name?”

“Mr. Septimus Balliston-Wyre”, our host said at once. He smiled at my surprised expression. “The sailor who trained me up on my first ever ship, the _“Witch of Endor”_ , he was a Septimus, and I thought of him holding a ball of wire. The name kinda stuck in the old noggin.”

“You have a most excellent memory, sir”, Sherlock said, placing a half-crown on the table. “We thank you for the important information. The doctor and I must set about finding this man, and seeing what he has to say for himself.

Unfortunately as things turned out, we did not get to see Mr. Septimus Balliston-Wyre. Or at least, not in the way that we might have hoped. 

+~+~+

We journeyed back west, stopping at Sherlock's insistence at my favourite dining-place in Trafalgar Square. Whilst waiting for our food I purchased a newspaper from a vendor across the street, and perused it as Sherlock sucked on his pipe. Then I let out a sudden gasp.

“What is it?” he asked, concerned.

“Listen to this!” I said. “'Police are investigating a savage killing in Conway Square, not far from Fenchurch Street Railway Station. At approximate nine o'clock this morning, servants at the house of a Mr. Septimus Balliston-Wyre discovered their master's body lying in the narrow alley that runs along the side of said house. Their master had been most brutally and savagely attacked, and early indications are that he died from either blood loss or shock. There were also found footmarks in the vicinity that suggest the presence of a large predator of some sort.'”

“I doubt that Mr. Septimus Balliston-Wyre was killed by a Bengal tiger that just happened to be passing through the East End between hunts”, Sherlock said dryly. “Is there anything else?”

“They have appended a sketch of one of the footmarks”, I said. “A rather poor quality one; it looks like a bird.”

“Well, unless the thing was a reincarnation of Prometheus' feathered friend, we may rule out a giant eagle too”, Sherlock said. “This is most worrisome. Now we have no other choice but to sit and wait for further developments.”

+~+~+

Which is what we had to do. September gave way to October and the leaves began to tumble from the trees, but it seemed as if whatever had killed those two men – assuming that it was a single creature – had either moved on or had met its own maker. That was until the end of October, when the night of All Hallow's Eve saw a third attack.

“I do not know if it is good news or bad news that the victim survived”, I observed the following day, “since he was clearly drunk at the time.”

“I would dare say that the victim disagrees with you on that point”, Sherlock said with a smile. 

A young sailor by the name of George Ball had been attacked, returning from a tavern to his ship. He had been badly mauled, but had been lucky enough to be carrying a knife and had managed to wound his attacker. He had fully expected the assault to continue, but his assailant had fled, shrieking in pain. 

“He claims that he was attacked by a giant rat!” I said incredulously. “How many pints did he have, for Heaven's sake?”

Sherlock looked at me pointedly.

“Assuming as seems likely that Mr. Darwin is correct”, he said, “it is quite improbable that _homo sapiens_ is the only species to have survived the lottery that is evolution. And as we push into more remote parts of the world, the more likely it is that we may stumble across some of our less successful cousins. Just as we diverged from the ape family, so somewhere further back humanity and rats must have had a common mammalian ancestor.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Do you think that that was what poor Mr. Septimus Balliston-Wyre did?” I asked. “Or at least, that he purchased some rat-human creation that had been found out East?”

Sherlock frowned.

“I very much fear so”, he said. “If the thing did come to England courtesy of Captain Warner and his ship, then that explains a lot. The only inconsistency is that this attack took place over two miles from that on the captain, and nearly three from the one on Mr. Balliston-Wyre. I would not have expected such a creature to move so far, as presumably more convenient victims were available nearby. Hunters are rational creatures, and will not travel unnecessarily for food.”

“Maybe the Giant Rat of Sumatra needs a giant-sized hunting area?” I suggested. Sherlock shook his head.

“I have an idea”, he said. “It depends very much on when the next attack takes place.”

“You think that there will be more attacks?” I asked worriedly.

“I am sure of it”, he said.

+~+~+

We interviewed the sailor who had been attacked, but obtained nothing new from him. He stuck to his story of a giant rat, complete with giant tail. I privately thought that some of his shipmates had been playing a joke on him, but as the month progressed, I was forced to revise that opinion. For Sherlock's prediction about further attacks proved horribly accurate. 

The third attack had been on a Friday, and on each Friday of that cold November, there was a further one. On the seventh a couple walking home from church were attacked, but the giant rat, or whatever it was, fled when the lady screamed for help and whacked it with her umbrella. On the fourteenth a female prostitute was found dead, again having been severely mauled, which of course led to a resurgence in Ripper stories in the newspapers. By the twenty-first people were unwilling to go out, and a young fellow was only saved from being the next victim because a policeman heard his cries for help and came running whilst blowing his whistle, which scared the attacker off. A middle-aged businessman returning home from the City was severely mauled in an attack a further seven days later, but survived his attack when passers-by came to his assistance. Like the previous victim, he recovered from his injuries after some time in hospital.

During this time, Sherlock was investigating something to do with all these attacks, although unusually he kept it from me. I knew that the attacks were unsettling him, not just because of their very nature but due to the fact that I had to travel through this area to reach some of my clients, and he feared for me. I promised to take extra care when near any of the attack sites, and even started taking my gun with me just to make his feel less uneasy. I told myself that every day except Friday was safe, but I feared that with my luck, I might just end up being the one victim who broke the pattern.

+~+~+

It was the first Thursday in December, and the city was keyed up for what might be the next attack. It was a writing day for me, but the grim autumnal chill sapped my energy, and the pages remained stubbornly blank beneath my pen. The sun had set and I was giving silent thanks for a warm fire and a good dinner when my friend spoke.

“I think that I may have solved the case.”

I looked up sharply.

“The Giant Rat killings?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “You examined the bodies of the first two victims, did you not?”

I shuddered at the memories.

“What was left of them”, I corrected.

“And you found a piece of cloth caught in Captain Warner's moustache?” Sherlock said.

“Yes”, I said slowly. “What of it?”

“We are going hunting”, he said. “You will need your gun, and make sure that it is fully loaded.”

That worried me, especially when I saw Sherlock taking out his own revolver and loading it. He was a far better shot than I, which suggested that whatever we were coming up against needed several bullets to take it down. It was not just the cold December air that made me shiver.

We hired a carriage which took us to an old warehouse down in the docks. Once we were inside, Sherlock opened the bag he had brought with him. I did not know what to expect, but it was not what he pulled out.

“Books?” I queried. He looked at me.

“We may be in for a wait of several hours”, he said. “If all goes well, we may have more than one bird in the bag before the night is out.”

He handed me Æschylus, and I sat down on a rickety-looking wooden chair by a window that was so dirty, it barely admitted any light at all, even after Sherlock had given it a quick wipe-down. Luckily the sky was clear and the moon, although not full, shone brightly. Our vigil began.

+~+~+

There had been two ships by the docks when we had arrived, and some hours later there were signs of activity on one of them. It must have been close to midnight, an unusual time to load or unload anything that was not illegal, I thought. Four men came off the ship, and a fifth man emerged from the darkness to greet them. There was the sound of conversation, then the shortest of the four took the coat he was holding and began to slip it on. 

Except that it was no ordinary coat. I gasped, loud in the silence of the huge building. He was donning the costume of a giant rat!

“So that is it!” I hissed, as man became vermin. “The whole thing was a set-up to hide their nefarious dealings!”

Even though I could not see it, I knew Sherlock was smiling in the darkness. 

“The only road out is the one we came in on”, he whispered, “and the back door of this place faces onto it. Once our 'rat' has moved to secure tonight's victim, we shall be ready for him.”

I nodded, and readied myself for action.

+~+~+

Action there was, but not what either of us had been expecting. After a further ten minutes, there was what sounded like a loud hiss from somewhere nearby, and all five men looked up in surprise. The next instant, something charged from the shadows and was amongst them, biting and tearing as they all tried to flee in panic. There was the sound of two gunshots, both muffled as if at extremely close range, and the sound of snarling and men screaming, followed by a further two shots. The whole thing lasted for what seemed like an age but what was, most probably, under a minute before all was silent again. Sherlock and I looked at each other, readied our weapons and made our way out of the warehouse.

The scene that greeted us was horrific. The five men lay about us, but my attention was drawn to a sixth body on the edge of the quayside, which was far from human. It was as if someone had taken a rat and simply decided to make it three-quarter human-sized. It was, perhaps mercifully, almost dead. Sherlock did not hesitate before pushing it over the edge with his foot, and it disappeared with a splash into the dark water.

I quickly assessed the five men. Two, including the one half into the rat costume, were dead, and a third was beyond all mortal help. The fourth was not badly injured but had merely been stunned into unconsciousness. I turned to the fifth, who was bleeding badly. 

Then I stopped. Even though I had never met the man in person, I knew that face from the files that I had read. It was Professor James Moriarty.

I hesitated. The world seemed to slow down.

“John”, Sherlock said quietly, “you are a doctor. You know what you have to do.”

Damn him for reminding me, I did. Never had I wanted more to disobey the maxim of First Do No Harm, but I could not let a fellow human being die, and unlike Mr. Mathews, I could see that with treatment, the professor would probably survive. Besides, the moment a doctor started taking it upon himself to choose who should live and die, he was on the road where good intentions paved the way to Hell. It went against every fibre of my being, but I knew that I had to try and save him.

Sometimes I hated my job!

+~+~+

I managed to patch Professor Moriarty up, and Sherlock and I lifted him and his sole surviving shipmate on board the ship he had come off, where we found two beds to lay them on. Neither of us spoke as we worked; I was fighting my own inner demons, and my friend was understandingly silent. We left them and repaired to the nearest police station, where we handed over the rat costume and explained what had happened, edited to exclude what we knew to have made the attack. Once a group of policeman and a police doctor had been dispatched, and we had given our statements, we left for Baker Street.

It was after three in the morning when we finally stumbled into our apartments, and never had they felt more welcoming. I would have gone straight to my room and crashed onto my bed, but Sherlock restrained me with a vice-like grip.

“John”, he said calmly, “you did what you had to do. You are too good a man to have done anything else.”

He steered me over to the cold fireside, and quickly laid a fire for us both, then poured us each a large whisky. I downed mine in a single shot, even though it burnt my throat in so doing.

“I wanted to, though!” I almost snarled. “Hell, I am little better than the thing that you pushed into the Thames!”

I was startled when he suddenly shot across the gap between us and grabbed me harshly by the shoulders. His blue eyes bored into my green ones.

“I knew that you never would”, he said firmly. “I have always had faith in you, doctor. Why do you have so little in yourself?”

I stared back at him, shocked. He let go of me, and I pulled myself to my feet, standing close to him. Then, I broke, falling into his arms and sobbing. He froze for a moment, then held me gently.

Whether mercifully or not, there was a knock at the door, and we sprang apart as if we had both been burned. It was our landlady's daughter, Miss Joanna Harvelle.

“Mother saw you come in, and made you some coffee if you wished it”, she said, bringing in a tray with a coffee-pot, some cups and two plates, one of which – Heavens to Betsy! - had a steaming pie with custard on it. I drew a ragged breath whilst Sherlock thanked her, and she withdrew. 

We ate in some silence before I spoke.

“How did you know?” I asked. He sat back. 

“I initially dismissed the idea of the giant rat being real”, he admitted ruefully. “I suspected that the first attack was a set-up because it was so convenient, especially after the cloth you found.”

I stared at him in confusion.

“Convenient?” I asked.

“That the captain of the ship that brought in a mysterious cargo should then be the man to meet his Maker struck me as rather too timely”, Sherlock said. “In reality the man was attacked from behind by someone coming up and chloroforming him with a soaked cloth, then taking the body away so they could fake a rodent attack. I had suspected some other cargo being smuggled into the country. In reality Professor Moriarty intended to use the creature as cover for his own activities, so could not risk the one man who might know of its existence talking. The second incident, that on Mr. Balliston-Wyre, was the only real attack, and it was that that showed me the creature was most probably real.”

“But the other attacks were all staged?” I asked. He nodded.

“The fact that they always occurred on a Friday struck me as odd”, he said. “Rodents are notoriously hungry, and the bigger they are, the more they need to consume. If a dangerous creature is known to hunt in a certain area, people tend for obvious reasons to avoid it. I made inquiries as to which ships, if any, always returned to port on that day. I nearly misfired because I found nothing, but then I realized my mistake. Since the attacks took place in the small hours of Friday morning, the ship might dock any time on Thursday, and sure enough, I found the _“St. Benedict"_ , which makes a weekly crossing to Rotterdam, which as you saw was one of the ships at the quayside.”

“Not to mention Professor Moriarty”, I added. 

To my surprise he shook his head.

“Like most of his business interests, his connection is through several other people”, he said. “Indeed, I very much fear that, should the Devil decide that he does not need the competition and the man recover, it will be difficult to prove he was guilty of anything other than meeting strangers off a ship.”

+~+~+

Regrettably, Sherlock was proven right. I had saved the life of his arch-enemy, although at least we were granted a respite of some months whilst he recovered. The police indeed failed prove any link between him and the owners of the ship. I had overseen the killing of one giant rat, but had had to save the life of a second.

I did not know then how close I was to regretting that fact even further.

+~+~+

As the battle with Professor Moriarty enters its final stages, there is a burst of podsnappery – and I come under fire!


End file.
